For the last week or so, I have gone slightly crazy, which humans are apt to do often silently, alone in their rooms or their beds or their hearts, weeping enough tears to fill ocean, screaming loud as a hurricane, gibbering to themselves for hours on end like ventriloquist’s toys. I like to refer to it as the agony of existence.
The agony of existence is the pain of all that is for us evolved monkey beings. It is the agony of being misunderstood, of thwarted love and thwarted dreams, of inadequacy and failure and fears of death and life and children and insects and the dark and the future; of a desire to return back to the womb when everything was warm and safe and you were never sleep-deprived or exhausted or frightened out of your wits or lonely or filled with self-hatred or filled with hatred for the world and for other people and for being encased in this flesh body, with this stupid brain, amongst this stupid society, like some stupid puppet in a stupid show where the strings just won’t stop twitching.
You wish you were a less volatile and more calm person, so you try to practise mindfulness or meditation or whatever makes people who do yoga so annoyingly Calm And Poised, but your mind spins at a thousand paces a minute, and so you end up feeling bad about the fact that you can’t relax and stop thinking, which only makes you angry and upset and more stressed, and then you are just a mass of tightened, hateful nerves.
You wish you could help people and were a kinder person, but the thing is your own life is so full of shit and you’re struggling with your own fears regarding money and How To Get It So You Do Not Starve when you struggle to leave the house without having a panic attack and are working on leaving the house for the sake of therapy even though the world outside is loud and scary and you hate it so much you could die and then you see a homeless person by the street who doesn’t even have a home while you still at least have a roof over your head but you don’t want to give them money because then your mother will get angry with you and besides you need it to buy groceries and how much good can fifty cents do, especially since all you can see inside the homeless man’s hat are ten cent pieces? I guess he could buy a burger with that. So you decide you’ll give him the money but then the traffic light turns green and you feel awkward about just standing there while everyone else crosses the street, so, like a sheep, you cross the street and end up ignoring the homeless man like everyone else even though your heart filled with aching useless empathy for them and now you hate yourself for being just as cruel and selfish as everyone else, and you hate yourself for crossing the street, just like everyone else, just like a dull, idiot sheep, in this whole damn mad pen.
Do not even get me started on trying to get through the day and writing, writing and trying to find the self-discipline to write, when you don’t know where the story is going and all your characters are shit and nothing is coming out right and you are like a baby, unable to learn the language, a baby trying to talk but making silly little mushy sounds, and then you remember the fact that you promised yourself you would live in order to write but right now you’re not writing, you’re just wasting time, because you’re so scared, and then you start hating yourself for being cowardly which only makes you more cowardly and you go to sleep without putting a word on the page which you hate yourself even more, and then you hate yourself for hating yourself because you know the proper thing to practise is self-love.
And then you spend a good five hours reading inspirational quotes written by famous writers, all of whom speak of love and inspiration and things striking from the clouds, and they all seem so poised and assured and strong, while you’re stuck in perfectionism, and you know the only way out is through, that you’re only going to get anything done in your lifetime if you just write but every word is agony, pulling out teeth one by one, peeling skin sliver by sliver, even every word you are writing right now hurts like something is pricking your eyeball repeatedly with a needle and no-one can see you crying blood which makes it all the more worse, when you bleed and no-one cares, because then the blood grows darker and you feel more alone and in pain.
Caring too much about what other people think is the curse of humanity, I think, I care so much, and I waste so much time that I could have spent writing or reading or daydreaming or trying to figure out how to live life and be fully in the present moment without throwing up or killing myself or abusing any substances. I hate the fact that sometimes I spend so much caring what a particular person thinks of me when they barely even noticed who I am, and then I hate myself for caring and wasting my time when their lives are seemingly so wonderful and filled with time, and then I hate myself for not loving myself more, and then go and try to write to make up for the lost time I spent caring about what someone else thought about me and then end up unable to write and hating myself for that, so the hate is compounded and I am almost dead.
See the problem is the words do not come out right, and each time they don’t, I hate myself for it, because it’s like birthing one defective child after another, which is a terrible metaphor, I know, but I am tired of being angelic and nice right now, and I want to do something, express myself somehow, in a way that is violent and ugly, because we are all violent and ugly, in our own ways, and civilisation is a thin, easily-breakable veneer. My babies turn out with bloated heads or two heads or five arms or no eyes and I stare down at the creature I have birthed, horrified and hating, and then writing another word is like birthing another bad baby, another rotten baby, again and again, until I am sickened by the mindless groping corpses all about me, their eyes milky, like so many fleshy grubs, and I feel that they should be killed, but then I feel bad for even harboring such a thought, imagining what it would be like to kill a baby, my heart cringes but at the sight time I think it, and I feel bad for even imagining such a thing, does that mean I am a killer, and I feel so bad I go back to hating myself again which is painful but comfortable and then I practise mindfulness and fail because my brain is spinning too much.
For lunch I have some meat in my sandwich, some ham, and it tastes horribly pink and fleshy; each time I take a bite and chew, I can almost hear the squeals, see the bloodied carcasses strung up along the assembly line, the dead faces, shut eyes, limp ears and flaccid snouts, pink and red and white and bleeding, and so bloody and horrifying, and I am eating it, swallowing it, swallowing this bit of protein borne of pain and agony, and I go to the bathroom and I retch, and hate myself, again, for thinking too much, and through the acid in my throat I cry tears, so it feels like my throat and eyes are joining together in a battle against me, one spewing bitter, the other dribbling salt, and I start to feel uncomfortable with my own body fluids and the bathroom so I quickly leave and wonder if this is because of my sensitivities or if this is just the way I am, triggered by anything and everything.
Somehow or other I find myself reading up on the lives of writers who have been successful, who had works published, work after work after work, and I hate myself for comparing but I do, I keep on reading, and then I get to pictures of people who have spouses and children and are wealthy and well-off and secure and who had the grit and talent and luck to get where they are and I sink into a puddle of despair, telling myself I can do the same while my heart shakes and shakes until it falls over into a puddle of despair, and I say to myself stop it, you are being ridiculous, you must stop this and believe in yourself and just get down to work but my heart is dead so it is kind of hard to get up.
I am afraid I am depressed, but then I just think that depression is a part of who I am, and perhaps even a part of being human, because everything is complicated and difficult and hurts and everything can be like plucking out teeth, and everywhere people are silently grimacing and plucking out their teeth.
My self-doubts regarding my writing are numerous and they attack me like needles, like wasps and bees, a dark cloud descending, first pain, then overwhelming numbness. I can’t completely visualize the worlds I am building, the characters are just props I move from scene to scene, I have great ideas but poor execution and will I ever get better, when I have no mentors, only books and paper and pencil and how terrible do things have to get, how hard does one have to work, before things start to smooth out a little and can I make it, do I have what it takes – and maybe I don’t because I’m questioning it? If I don’t have writing, if I don’t have the talent or the ability or the social skills, if I am all alone with not a soul to help or call to, not a mentor to reassure me, like a tiny girl on a moon all by herself trying to scratch SOS signals in the white dust, then, what do I do? What do I do, what do I do, what do I do, what do I do.
And sooner or later, even living becomes agony, each second after second that passes like a deformed baby, like pulling out teeth, and I wonder if I am depressed or if I just hate myself or if this is just a normal part of being human and to be honest I don’t think depression is an illness, we like to put labels on things when they aren’t there, I think depression is a just a result of over-thinking or trauma or high expectations or pressure or loneliness or self-hatred or just a tiredness of the world, because I tried medication and it didn’t work and I hated the idea of putting that synthetic crap inside of me, like it was burrowing through layers of my stomach like acids.
And you know, I do believe I am becoming delusional, even though I feel as if I am not, because I am starting to question reality, in ways that are both awful and ridiculous and then I laugh, too high-pitched, and tell myself to stop thinking and live in the moment and when I fail at that I hate myself all over again and it all goes back to square one. I am delusional, because to escape my own feelings I made myself believe that the anguish created inside of me comes from outside of me, does not spring up from the wells of myself, and who does it come from? Why, my twin flame, who exists out there, a boy who does not care for me, but yet I insist is my twin flame, either to escape loneliness or because I have an over-active imagination or because I too romantic; and I also believe that I may be clairsentient, because when I focus on particular people in my mind my own internal landscape changes and I become angry or happy or sad, as if I am feeling what they are feeling, which may be delusional but also may be true because as human beings we really don’t know anything except the stories we made up and continually tell ourselves.
So, ouch, I am like an exclamation in my life, stabbing and shouting in the middle of a sentence where it should not be, high and pointed and crying out with a loud ouch! But I know that time passes regardless of how I feel, that things go on, even when people die and people kill and people hurt and people go insane and people suicide, so I won’t suicide, because I am scared too and because some part of me, even with all this going on, refuses to, and I guess it’s just some plain stubbornness, keeping me alive. Maybe tension and sadness is like a flu and it’s really bad when you have it but after it’s over you forget that it was so bad, like the way women who go through childbirth say the pain was worth it, when it really wasn’t when they were actually in the moment and feeling the pain, they actually screamed like stuck pigs as if they were about to die. But time makes us forget, and heals us, and we say it was all okay, when it was not, not then, it was really, really bad then.
Maybe life is just being alone and hurting with no-one to help you because no-one can live in your place until the pain diminishes or passes or ends, or you distract yourself, or you eat. Or something. But I wrote this to say Hello, and also to say I Am Hurting Maybe Just Like You, and to say Fuck Isn’t Life Hard and also I promise not to search up any more articles on writer suicides, because killing myself now for a romantic literary ideal is the least productive thing I can do when I have yet to have published a single word.
Also, there was a story I sent in to a writing competition that I thought was really, really good, one of the better ones I’ve written, but I still haven’t received a reply and I’ve been checking the mailbox and dying of disappointment each time, and I’m either afraid the story was so bad they laughed or the idea was so bright and shiny and good that they’ll steal it and turn it into a novel and then make lots and lots of money from it, while I sit in my room and rage until blood comes out of my ears.
I wish I was a colour. I think colours have nice lives. They just have to exist. They don’t have to think or feel a thing.